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Plagued by carnage, driven with bloodlust. There you reside in each and every battlefield we have stood on, ready and waiting to stand before me and create fragments of despair, of a dark disgrace we have seen so long ago. Running through his veins, pulsing, unafraid as you take a man I once knew and convert him to his fully realized form, a tragedy on society. Death; all I’ve been looking for. His body, bathed in carmine, where the moon cries at his presence. Where the wind carries his voice right to where I’ve stood. He relinquishes control. Let those who oppose him experience a merciful death. Let him drag his hands—permanently scarred where mottled onyx seeps into his veins, all the way up his arms and shoulders; where everything looks much more sinful from the stark light against a youthful night— against the marred bodies of his enemies. He is dangerous. Am I dangerous for loving him? For loving what you’ve turned him into? He is a weapon. The embodiment of mercy, so painful; nothing in comparison to the prolonging of this life. A death that is so close, so moving it feels tangible. A stunning disaster, so profound I must pause, just to see the lovely waltz. Where he moves with the monster that’s apart of him, so volatile, careful magnolias whisper under their footsteps. I marvel at his painful ease, at the way it takes him under the veil of darkness in which that creature was conceived. This is where he belongs—where those once peaceful winds scream. May the ravens call for me to stay where I belong. So, I listen. So, I watch. Blood seething under his skin, for my name to spill off his tongue, where poison burns right behind it and makes its way into each and every syllable where he drawls. Those magnolias bleed. You are torturing me. I can’t take my eyes away. You bring me life. You make me feel alive. You are beautiful. You taste of corruption, of sin where it paints your body in a smear of scarlet. You are death. You are despair. You are all I have been searching for.